The upland country, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small to hold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged to him.  And when old Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on Wildfire in the grand race that must be run with the King, Bostil felt stir in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear.  At first he mocked it.  He—­Bostil—­afraid to race!  It was a lie of the excited mind.  He repudiated it.  Insidiously it returned.  He drowned it down—­smothered it with passion.  Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly.

After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton’s, where Slone and the winners of the day received their prizes.

“Why, it’s more money than I ever had in my whole life!” exclaimed Slone, gazing incredulously at the gold.

Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasure was the old inventive, driving passion to gain his own ends.

Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; monstrously selfish in one way.

“Slone, I seen you didn’t drink none,” he said, curiously.

“No; I don’t like liquor.”

“Do you gamble?”

“I like a little bet—­on a race,” replied Slone, frankly.

“Wal, thet ain’t gamblin’.  These fool riders of mine will bet on the switchin’ of a hoss’s tail.”  He drew Slone a little aside from the others, who were interested in Brackton’s delivery of the different prizes.  “Slone, how’d you like to ride for me?”

Slone appeared surprised.  “Why, I never rode for any one,” he replied, slowly. 
“I can’t stand to be tied down.  I’m a horse-hunter, you know.”

Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the difficulties of the job offered.  It was no news to Bostil that he was at once the best and the worst man to ride for in all the uplands.

“Sure, I know.  But thet doesn’t make no difference,” went on Bostil, persuasively.  “If we got along—­wal, you’d save some of thet yellow coin you’re jinglin’.  A roamin’ rider never builds no corral!”

“Thank you, Bostil,” replied Slone, earnestly.  “I’ll think it over.  It would seem kind of tame now to go back to wild-horse wranglin’, after I’ve caught Wildfire.  I’ll think it over.  Maybe I’ll do it, if you’re sure I’m good enough with rope an’ horse.”

“Wal, by Gawd!” blurted out Bostil.  “Holley says he’d rather you throwed a gun on him than a rope!  So would I. An’ as for your handlin’ a hoss, I never seen no better.”

Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the gold coins in his palm.  Some one touched Bostil, who, turning, saw Brackton at his elbow.  The other men were now bantering with the Indians.

“Come now while I’ve got a minnit,” said Brackton, taking up a lantern.  “I’ve somethin’ to show you.”

Bostil followed Brackton, and Slone came along.  The old man opened a door into a small room, half full of stores and track.  The lantern only dimly lighted the place.